A DAUGHTER OF THE RICH
I
MOLASSES TEA
"Good-night, Martie," called a sweet voice down the stairway.
"Good-night, Rose dear I thought you were asleep."
"Good-night, Martie," duetted the twins, in the shrillest of treble and falsetto.
"Good-night, you rogues; go to sleep; you'll wake baby."
"Dood-night, mummy," chirped a little voice from the adjoining room.
There was a shout of laughter from the twins.
"Shut up," growled March from the attic over the kitchen. "Good-night, mother." His growl ended in a squeak, for March was at that interesting period of his life indicated by a change of voice. At the sound, a prolonged snicker from somewhere was answered by a corresponding giggle from another-where.
"Now, children," said Mrs. Blossom, speaking up the stairway, "do be quiet, or baby will be wide awake."
"Turn tiss me, mummy," piped the little voice a second time, with no sound of sleep in it.
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